Prompts
by KismetJeska
Summary: A collection of one-shots, written using a random word generator. Some will be angsty, some fluffy, some John/Sherlock, some pure crack. Most recent prompt: Rocket.
1. Thread

**Prompt: Thread**

**Heavily implied slash- all K rated, though.**

* * *

><p>It was easy to see the thread that connected them. It wasn't visible, tangible, touchable, but it was so clearly there. It was the strangest thing Greg had ever seen, and he'd seen unbelievable things- working with Sherlock Holmes saw to that. After all, somewhere in Scotland Yard, there was an official police document beginning 'the glowing badger was a false alarm'.<p>

But this was something altogether different. It wasn't creepy, just… enigmatic. John would walk into a room and Sherlock would greet him by name, without once turning around or looking up. Now, Greg was pretty sure 'John' was just Sherlock's default address for 'anybody not holding a gun to my head' by now, but it wasn't just that. John could do the same thing- and he _knew _where Sherlock was. Greg would ask John where the detective was and be told 'he's back at the flat picking up some things'. Sherlock hadn't told him that. John hadn't seen him. When Greg questioned him, John just shrugged. 'I can tell,' he'd reply.

It wasn't just location either. Greg was half convinced they had special alarms that sounded whenever the other one was sad, angry or just plain lonely. Sherlock never answered his phone at a crime scene. When he was engrossed in a body, mind tripping over millions of possibilities and narrowing them down, it was near impossible to break him out of it. But Greg remembered on seemingly standard occasion when the phone vibrated against Sherlock's leg and he'd shot back from the corpse immediately. Seemingly forgetting it entirely, he'd sighed and stated to nobody in particular 'Harry's started drinking again'. He had then pulled his phone out his phone and read nearly the exact same text out loud.

Greg would ask John why Sherlock was in a bad mood and John would reply 'Oh, he has a headache'. But the next week, when Sherlock was in seemingly the exact same bad mood, John pointed out that the way Sherlock had been standing combined with how often he checked his phone was an indicator that he was having a fight with Mycroft- probably over his safety, because if it was just Mycroft trying to persuade Sherlock to do something he wouldn't be nearly so annoyed.

Greg had put it to the test a few times, and asked Sherlock what was wrong. Whilst at first the only answer he ever got was 'you exist', eventually Sherlock would admit the truth. John was always right.

It was like a special kind of deduction that only worked for the two of them. They knew each other's footsteps, faces, every inch of the way they held themselves and every note of their speech. If a single thing was off, they could pick it up. At times it made Lestrade jealous. He loved his girlfriend, but they didn't have the incredibly connection that they seemed to. The walnut stuffed chicken he had made her once was a nice gesture, sure, but he had only remembered her nut allergy _after _she had taken two bites. She'd been nice about it and the paramedic had given him the Christmas hat from his cracker, but that wasn't really the point.

The thread seemed to tie around them and behave as this invisible connection everywhere that they went. It recoiled if they strayed too far, sending them pinging back together. Whenever Lestrade saw Sherlock, John was by his side. If they were ever apart for a long space of time they were visibly uneasy- fidgeting, constantly checking their phones and, in Sherlock's case, occasionally phoning Mycroft to have John helicoptered over. After the fourth time, Mycroft politely requested that Sherlock take a course in dealing with separation rather than enlisting the military every time John visited his sister. Instead, Sherlock declared that he suspected John to have epilepsy and took to accompanying him everywhere. John didn't seem to mind. In fact, Greg swore that he once overheard him faking a seizure to end a telesales call.

Sherlock would catch something John threw without looking up once. John would have brought Sherlock those things- things he needed- without the other man having to ask. It was one of the most intriguing and, shaming though it was to admit, heart-warming things that Greg had ever seen. There wasn't a breath Sherlock Holmes took that John Watson didn't know about.

So when Greg read the finishing words 'He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him', he believed them too.

And if, by some miracle, Sherlock was still out there, that thread would never be cut. One day, it would grow too tight. Greg knew that Sherlock would come hurtling back, and he knew that John would be waiting.


	2. Hiding

**Prompt: Hiding**

**Crack, no plot, no slash**

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><p><em>John Watson- 15:50<em>  
>Did you get the milk?<p>

_John Watson- 16:32_  
>Sherlock?<p>

_John Watson- 17:22  
><em>I'm in the shop- can get some if you didn't.

_Sherlock Holmes- 18:02_  
>No. SH<p>

_John Watson- 18:02_  
>Thanks, that's only a few hours too late.<p>

_John Watson- 18:03_  
>Also, I'm standing in front you, in case you hadn't realised.<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 18:03_  
>Looking up requires effort. SH<p>

_John Watson- 18:04_  
>But why are you texting?<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 18:05_  
>Why are you texting back? SH<p>

_John Watson- 18:06_  
>I am going to go and get some milk. Goodbye, Sherlock.<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 19:11_  
>Goodbye, John. SH<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 19:12_  
>I have already bought milk. SH<p>

_John Watson- 19:12_  
>Are you on time delay or something?<p>

_John Watson- 19:12_  
>You have not.<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 19:13_  
>I most certainly have. SH<p>

_John Watson- 19:19_  
>Our fridge currently contains 4 beer cans (1 half drunk), half a curly wurly bar, one slice of bread with what looks like black mould on it, two femurs, half a vole and, surprisingly, no milk.<p>

_John Watson- 19:20_  
>I checked.<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 19:21_  
>Oh my, your life is dull. SH<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 19:21_  
>PS: the milk is hiding. SH<p>

_John Watson- 19:35_  
>Your bedroom drawer currently contains a handgun, passport, half a curly wurly (seemingly unrelated to the other half), a mobile phone charger and twenty two pence change.<p>

_John Watson- 19:36_  
>And not a single gram of cocaine.<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 19:36_  
>Excellent work, John. And may I say your trust in me is overwhelming. SH<p>

_John Watson- 19:37_  
>Sorry.<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 19:37_  
>Quite. SH<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 19:39_  
>The milk is still hiding. SH<p>

_John Watson- 19:39_  
>Sherlock.<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 19:40_  
>John. SH<p>

_John Watson- 19:41_  
>There is no milk in the fridge.<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 19:42_  
>It would be an abysmal hider if it hid in the fridge. SH<p>

_John Watson- 19:43_  
>Did you just use abismal in a text message?<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 19:44_  
>No. But I did use abysmal.<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 19:44_  
>SH<p>

_John Watson- 19:45_  
>I do have you added, you know. You don't need to sign off, I am aware of who I am texting.<p>

_John Watson- 19:46_  
>The fact that you are looking at me whilst replying also helps.<p>

_John Watson- 19:47_  
>Oh God, what is that face?<p>

_John Watson- 19:47_  
>Stop that.<p>

_John Watson- 19:49_  
>Stop that <em>now.<em>

_Sherlock Holmes- 19:50_  
>I was smiling, John.<p>

_John Watson- 19:51_  
>That was not smiling. That was terrifying.<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 19:52_  
>The best smiles are.<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 20:10_  
>Have you found the milk yet?<p>

_John Watson- 20:10_  
>Sherlock, I will quite genuinely kill you.<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 21:44_  
>Have you found the milk yet?<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 22:51_  
>Have you found the milk yet?<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 03:12_  
>Have you found the milk yet?<p>

_John Watson- 03:13_  
>GO TO SLEEP<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 03:14_  
>Yes, but have you found it yet?<p>

_John Watson- 03:16_  
>There is no milk. You did not buy milk because you never buy milk. Please go to bed.<p>

_John Watson- 04:02_  
>… are you playing the violin?<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 04:02_  
>No.<p>

_John Watson- 04:03_  
>Sherlock, you are either playing the violin or choking an infant. I do not care which at this point. Put it down and go to bed.<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 04:03_  
>I am in bed.<p>

_John Watson- 04:04_  
>You cannot play the violin lying down.<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 04:05_  
>The fact that I am doing so is fairly strong evidence otherwise.<p>

_John Watson- 04:06_  
>Well, it certainly explains the strangled infant element.<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 04:07_  
>Shouldn't you be asleep?<p>

_John Watson- 04:08_  
>I am getting the handgun.<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 04:08_  
>And the milk?<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 04:11_  
>Alright, alright. No need to shout.<p>

_John Watson- 06:13_  
>I'm only going to ask this once: why?<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 06:14_  
>Why what, exactly?<p>

_John Watson- 06:15_  
>Why, Sherlock, is there a bottle of milk at the end of my bed?<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 06:15_  
>I told you. I bought milk.<p>

_John Watson- 06:16_  
>Why is it wearing a hat?<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 06:16_  
>I told you. It's hiding.<p>

_John Watson- 06:18_  
>Oh sweet Jesus.<p>

_John Watson- 06:20_  
>It is far too early for this.<p>

_John Watson- 06:29_  
>When did you even put it there?<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 06:30_  
>You're a light sleeper.<p>

_John Watson- 06:30_  
>I am not.<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 06:31_  
>Alright. Perhaps I'm just a marvellous human being.<p>

_John Watson- 06:32_  
>No comment.<p>

_John Watson- 07:18_  
>Can you start signing your texts again?<p>

_John Watson- 07:59_  
>I sort of miss it.<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 08:18_  
>No.<p>

_Sherlock Holmes- 08:52_  
>SH<p> 


	3. Rocket

**Prompt: Rocket**

**K+ rated, friendship- no (obvious) slash.**

**I don't even know what this is. I'm not very happy with it, but I've uploaded it anyway. **

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><p>When John was five years old, he dreamt of going to go into space.<p>

His bed was shaped like a spaceship. His ceiling was covered in glow in the dark stars. His wall was plastered in crude pictures of planets, glossy posters of the solar system, and, framed, the automated reply NASA sent him in response to his (clumsily crayoned and proudly posted) letter.

Space was where clever people went, and people said John was clever. Space was where brave people went, and John wanted to be brave. Space also happened to contain aliens and aliens would be fun. John thought he might like to meet an alien.

John would close his eyes and concentrate very hard, and he would slip into the same dream almost every night. In it, he discovered a new planet and he was famous and everybody wanted to be his friend. He lived on his planet with his wife and his two children named Alan and Daisy (it used to be three, but Lucas pushed him off the swings and then took the last chocolate biscuit from the tin and so now they weren't friends anymore so John wouldn't have a son called Lucas).

Some nights his mummy and daddy would live there too, but not always. It depended on how much they had been fighting and shouting. Harry was certainly never there- she wasn't allowed to be until she gave him his Lego back. _All _of his Lego, not just the bits she didn't want.

John's planet was happy. He loved his mummy and daddy and wife and children and they all loved him back. He wasn't scared that they would stop liking him because there were other people who were funnier or cleverer or could name more planets than he could. He was a spaceman, so he wasn't scared of anything, really. He was brave and brave people weren't ever afraid.

John would lie in bed, smiling. He would look up at the glow in the dark stars and know for sure that, one day, he would be up among them.

* * *

><p>At first, it had been something of a nostalgic sensation to lie in his bedroom and feel fucking terrified, but it was one John was getting used to.<p>

He had stopped having nightmares at about eight years old and he didn't much appreciate their return. _You're not in Afghanistan anymore, _he would think furiously to himself. _Pull yourself together and just get over this. _But what had felt bearable in real life was unendurable in his nightmares.

It was irrational to lie awake at 3AM and feel too afraid to turn your head or open your eyes. It was abnormal to wake yourself up screaming every night, and it was just plain embarrassing to have to go to therapy because of it.

John had to lean heavily on his cane to walk even the shortest distances and the pain got worse as the nightmares did. To clean up his tiny apartment took him nearly an hour, and he had to take extra strength painkillers afterwards.

He still did it, though, every single day. He hated the look of the room when it had his mug in it, his clothes, his books. He didn't want to live the imprint of himself on this place. It was alien and detached and it ought to stay that way. John wanted to live in a box; to touch nothing and have nothing touch him.

Nobody called. He had stopped answering so they had stopped trying. It was better that way. At first, their harsh words had hurt, but the closed over wounds eventually hardened his skin. It was so much easier to keep yourself alone than to try and let everybody down, over and over again.

People you loved would get hurt, or hurt themselves, and they would die. It might be a bullet or a mine or a bomb. Equally, it might be with beer or wine or vodka. It didn't matter. And if he was lonely, that didn't matter either. None of it mattered, not in the end.

When he put things into his bedside drawer, he didn't look at the yellowing stack of drawings and photographs. He threw away the NASA letter without looking at it. Dreams didn't happen. Reality happened, and reality fucking stung.

Lying in bed was when he became truly aware of how weak he was. Despite trying his absolute hardest, John felt fear. He didn't let himself feel anything else.

* * *

><p>"I don't understand why you're so perplexed by this."<p>

"Because it's basic knowledge, Sherlock."

"Is it really?"

"_Yes. _Most people do know that the Earth goes around the sun."

"What's the Latin for oak tree?" There had been no gap between John's point and Sherlock's, but that wasn't that unusual.

"I have no idea."

"Oh, go on. Humour me."

"Alright. Oakus treeus." Sherlock didn't look amused.

"Thank you so much for that stunning contribution to human knowledge. My point is, John, that you did not know what the Latin for oak tree is. Why isn't that considered abnormal?"

"Because nobody normal knows the Latin for anything."

"And why not?" Sherlock pointed out.

"Because nobody needs to know."

"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed, satisfied. "So why should I need to know astronomy? It's not that I'm unaware of it- I opted not to learn it because it doesn't affect me."

"But astronomy is cool!" John blurted out. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"_Interesting_. I meant interesting," John corrected. If it was anybody else, he wouldn't have been worried. But Sherlock had a way of seeing your whole self through the tiniest feature, and John might as well have just handed the man his diary.

"So go on, then. Elaborate."

"What?"

"Tell me what it is about astronomy that you find _interesting._"

"Oh. Um, okay. Space is… space is amazing. It's something we can never understand, you know?" John tried to explain. "It makes everything seem so small and insignificant because there's all this… space."

"Enthralling."

"No, seriously. There's so much of it and it really puts everything in perspective. You don't have to worry about anybody else or anything else because it all just fades away. What might happen and what has happened stops mattering. Nothing seems impossible when you think about everything that happens up there."

Sherlock stayed quiet for a few minutes. John briefly wondered if he'd fallen asleep while John was talking (it would not have been the first time).

"That's conceptual, though," Sherlock eventually mused. "That isn't scientific. That sounds less like knowledge and more like… dreaming."

"I don't dream."

"Everybody dreams."

"Well, I don't." Sherlock looked at John in a way that made him a little uncomfortable. It was as though he was under a microscope, and he felt the sudden, desperate urge to get away.

"I didn't know you were interested in outer space," Sherlock eventually said.

"I used to be, yeah."

"Why aren't you now?" Sherlock leant forward.

"Oh, no, I am not having this conversation. This is not 'deduce things about John' hour."

"Your reaction tells me more than your words ever could." Sherlock looked so smug that John wanted to punch him.

"It was just a hobby, Sherlock. A stupid, meaningless hobby."

"You should take it up again," Sherlock declared. The urge to punch him was not receding.

"And why would I do that?"

"Because you used to enjoy it."

"So?"

"It made you happy."

"I don't- why do you even care about this?" John asked, exasperated. Sherlock's eyes met his and it was the microscope feeling again, but worse. Sherlock was reaching out with more than his mind- John could see Sherlock's heart glimmering in his eyes, and that scared him more than anything else.

"That's what friends do, isn't it?" Sherlock murmured softly.

* * *

><p>Since he met Sherlock, the nightmares had lessened. They hadn't gone away, but they were quieter. More manageable. Whilst he still awoke at ridiculous times, he never made a sound and he could get back to sleep within the hour.<p>

After the first few weeks of new books and old books and Google searches, John slept through the night for the first time in over a year.

After the trips to the library and out into the countryside (just to stare at the sky and allow himself to _exist_), John dreamt. It was a typical, mundane affair, with no death or gore. It had taken him a while to adjust to that. He spent nearly ten minutes after he woke up just lying back and smiling.

After he got the drawings out of the tightly packed boxes and flicked through them gently before moving them to the bedside drawer, and after Sherlock started coming out on the trips with him, and after a few months of running and hiding and _living_, it finally began to sink in that this wasn't going to end. There would be no huge, terminating realisation that John wasn't good enough to stay around. Sherlock wasn't going to leave him.

After they left the swimming pool, unscathed and so very alive, John dreamt old, childish dreams. There were alterations, of course. The wife and children, for one, seemed rather less important. John had spent so much time as a child imagining how it would feel to be praised for being clever or amazing or fantastic. In recent dreams that didn't seem matter quite as much.

John dreamt instead about the kind of things he'd told Sherlock. Things like looking up at the sky and seeing something so much bigger than yourself. Accepting that it isn't all down to you.

_(You don't have to save everyone.)_

John dreamt about people he loved and that still, despite everything, seemed to love him. It took a few days before Sherlock arrived in his night-time world and offered him a rocket.

John dreamt that he came down from his solitary planet and re-joined the human race. And as he slowly woke up the next morning, he felt like he might finally be ready to.


End file.
